Vultures are circling the lame duck

I don’t trust Jacob Zuma for the simple reason that he is bald. Shaving your head is an unnatural act for anyone but a cancer patient. And even then, it had better be a serious cancer, like brain or lung. None of this pancreatic nonsense. And you can forget about skin.

A head without hair is like a tortoise without a shell. It’s not something we want to look at. Bald people polish their heads. How sick is that? What kind of world would this be if we all started shining our heads? I can already see the signs outside hair salons. “This week only! Wax and polish R35!”

Forget the heads. I’m sick to death of the entire shameful business. Four thousand people get to decide who will become president? I have never heard such nonsense. I was tempted to drive up to Polokwane and give that mob of two-stepping, power-saluting megalomaniacs a piece of my mind. The first thing that stopped me was not having the faintest idea where Polokwane is situated. The second was that I am white and would have stood out like a nudist at a Baptist convention. Come to think of it, being white would probably not have been an issue. There’s a very good chance that this is the first time in our country’s history that so many darkies have gathered in one place without once blaming us blue-eyed devils for some or other human rights atrocity or malfunction of government.

On April 4, 2006, I announced my intention to run for president. After which I wrote: “However, I may have to reconsider if the ANC does not desist from behaving like a rabid dog that has sunk its teeth into its own buttocks and is now preparing to begin the messy business of devouring itself.”

Talk about premature premonitions. I never knew it then, but 20 months ago the ANC was merely licking its buttocks, softening them up for the real devouring which begins this week. Put on your headphones and turn up the volume, for the sounds of slavering and crunching will surely drive you mad.

The philosopher king should have let lying dogs sleep. Now the Kraken is well and truly awake. By firing Zuma in 2005, Thabo Mbeki gave the masses a figure to rally around. Everyone loves a singing, dancing martyr. And it doesn’t matter that Zuma’s not educated. By all appearances, he is concealing two brains beneath that giant burnished cranium.

When Mbeki returns to Pretoria, it will be on a pair of webbed feet and crutches. Zuma will leave taller than when he arrived. He will be followed by a feral pack of acolytes who will win our sympathy by once again demonstrating their pitiful inability to walk normally. These people belong in callipers, for God’s sake, not government.

And those brave souls who allowed their names to be attached to Mbeki’s List? Alas, not even Oskar Schindler could save their careers now. Uneasy lie the heads of Trevor, Joel, Terror, Manto and a host of others. The night of the long knives is not far off.

Circling like a winged hyena, his glittering eyes hooded, the lappet-faced Mo Shaik keeps his scavengers in a tight formation. Wait for my signal, boys. The duck is lame. Soon, he will stumble and fall. The water is pink. Wait until it turns red. Red like the colour of Comrade Blade’s flag.

Where once the spirit of noble revolution prevailed, the spirit of Judas Iscariot now hangs heavy. Trusted delegates who once gave voice to the voiceless have mutated into Janus-faced quislings, their actions dictated by duplicitous promises of positions and power. Fifth columnists from the third force are buying their way into the hearts of the fourth estate with offers of free beer and snacks. Democracy is being gangbanged right before our eyes and there is nothing we can do to stop it.

All we can do is put our faith in the words of Bob Marley. “Jah would never give the power to a baldhead,” he sang in Time Will Tell. But then his dreadlocks fell out and he died of brain cancer.

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